


Proteus

by ghostburr



Category: Amrev - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 02:57:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6177445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostburr/pseuds/ghostburr





	Proteus

There is an ancient Greek myth called _The Old Man of The Sea_ , pertaining to the god of elusive change, called Proteus, who shifts and bends with each wild current, ebbing and flowing to suit his passions. With eyes as black as hell and as deep as the ocean he insinuates the future but will not say it; speaks in riddles wrapping serpentine coils around my neck until I am drowned. Raises a finger, caresses my cheek, as if searching for the thoughts within, and then, slowly, down my chest, to my heart, into the deepest fears of my soul. You are that Proteus, and you know you are, yet will not admit to it, will not admit to anything, and in the very nature of your denial you become him.

I watch you stare at me, Proteus, soft-lipped and insinuating, you blink once, and then your gaze is gone. You leave me baffled, warm, the ground staring up at the sky, wishing it could somehow reach those dizzying heights and yet disdaining them. And the crowd chatters on, like birds in the woods, two hunters do not hear them when they are stalking each other. You, Proteus, smile at the young men and kiss their cheeks, whisper into their ears, “come with me”, you do not think I see you but I do, and they follow you like dogs in heat, craving recognition.

“Great souls have no need of small morals,” you hiss into my ear. And suddenly you are upon me. The candles have gone out and I am alone and you are standing there, challenging me. And I am frightened like a rabbit but cannot show it; frightened as the water grips at my arms and my hips, pulling me under, and you, Proteus, command me to scream. You do not understand that I am your only match, and as the myth goes, the sole man who can wrench from you, heaving, confessions you would never dare utter in the daylight. Te Deums even your ancestors scorned. Your skin tastes like something mellow and there is no word for it. For a moment I notice our hands are the same size.

Your fingers grip mine against the carpet or the dirt or the hot air between us –I have ceased paying attention—and you tear from me the screams of an animal.

You, Proteus, Man of the Sea, shape shifter, liar, _liscentia, luxuria_ , as true a Catiline that ever met in midnight conclave, a priest of fleshly pleasures and diviner of men’s passions, and it is only now, as they press against my neck, that I realize your mouth is as full and as thick as a whore’s. And I will claim it like a saint slaying satan. I can predict your unpredictable moves: your hands searching my body, your teeth at my shoulders, your tongue against the deepest, darkest part of me, hard, hardest to control. And you, Proteus, of course you exploit that, because that is what the ocean does to man. Takes him into its mouth and sucks him down, gasping and swearing, at a God who never listens.

“But satan listens, and he is with us tonight.” Another whisper, and I still refuse to admit that I belong to you. Even as I close my eyes.

I find you around me, inside of me, all manner of maddening things. I stare into the mirror and it is not my face that gazes back but yours, dark and severe, black eyes that I cannot escape, taunting me with what I will never be. I am a small child on an island whose only companion is the sea and there you are again.

I am a soldier wielding my sword and you are one, too, wielding yours, just as deftly, and it makes me weak at the thought of you wearing my uniform, but you do. And will. And your boots are cleaner than mine and I find them like shining beetles between my feet, tapping my legs apart. And this small thought, for the first time, makes me grin, tiny, a shard of light reflecting off a river. You, Proteus, my Proteus, I remind myself, your wet hands wrapped around my stomach, feeling for an injury you wish were there, are my most magnificent creation. And I cannot define you and I cannot keep you within moral boundaries but I like you this way, back arched like a wave, coming hard so that I can see your tiny death, cheeks blooming with color like springtime. But you and I are sons of Saturn. And it is in his realm, timeless and ageless Winter, when your water freezes, Proteus, and I can grasp it, that I know who you are.


End file.
